Cravings
by YellowDancer
Summary: A silly little oneshot involving Trish, Dante and breakfast-or was it dessert?


**Author's Note: **

**This is a story that has been sitting in my "works-in-progress" file for a long time though it was essentially finished months ago. It's mostly fluffy pancake, but fun. **

**Cravings**

The world looked and felt different at three in the morning. Most of the city had quieted by that hour, a hush descending on the empty streets and shadowed alleys as reality skewed into something less certain, as if dreams and nightmares could truly take form and exist within that brief period of night. It was difficult to remember when walking through the city at such a late hour that it was actually inhabited during the day. But Dante was used to the unearthly quiet of the late night hours--as well as the monsters who chose to show their ugly heads at that time—so he didn't even consider it as he made his way back home after a long night of hunting.

Trudging up the stairs, he wondered if Alastor had gained weight over the course of the night; somehow the sword felt twice as heavy as usual. He caught sight of Trish's bike parked next to the staircase and sighed; she had beaten him home again. She would brag about it, he was sure.

Shoving a mildly sore shoulder against the door with a grimace, Dante stepped into the dimly-lit entranceway in relief. The night had started out with a false lead at the Cat Scratch Club downtown, followed by an inconvenient misunderstanding and a subsequent contest with an enraged lycanthrope. After taking care of the werewolf, Dante had finally picked up the trail of his real target and tracked it to a cemetery of all places.

Peeling off his jacket, saturated with sweat, blood, and various bits of nastiness, he tossed it in a pile of laundry next to the door. He absolutely, without a doubt or reservation, hated zombies. He hated necromancers even more—especially crazed, angry necromancers who weren't as interested in killing him as dissecting him and learning how to raise a demon body from the dead.

Unlacing his boots with one hand while leaning on the banister of the staircase, he surveyed the wreckage of the living room. Maybe they needed a maid. Trish sure as hell wasn't domestic enough to consider picking up a mop or a dust rag--though she might have looked nice dressed up as a French maid.

His eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, he noticed for the first time that it was unusually bright in the room, and realized a moment later that the soft glow was spilling out through the crack beneath the kitchen door. And was that humming he was hearing?

Discarding his boots, he considered shedding his pants as well, but hesitated with his hand on the doorknob of the kitchen door. Gauging his exhaustion level, he decided that attempting to allure Trish would not be on the agenda for the evening. But he was feeling a bit hungry, and the smells wafting through the cracks around the door were more than tempting. She must have been heating up leftovers or some kind of late-night snack. Trish didn't cook—a circumstance he was grateful for after her last attempt. He took pride in the fact that she probably hadn't gotten home much earlier than him if she was still up making a snack.

"Are you going to stand out there all night, or are you going to come in?" Trish called from the other side of the door, and Dante smiled, pushing the door open decisively.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Wearing a too-large apron over her small t-shirt and drawstring shorts cut off from sweat pants, she looked absolutely ridiculous with a spatula in her hand and patches of flour clinging to her cheek. For a moment, he thought that he had already fallen asleep and was dreaming the scene before him, but when Trish looked up at him, a hand on one slender hip as she attempted to flip a pancake on the stove, he knew he wasn't having a nightmare as he had guessed.

"I thought we talked about this," Dante admonished. "I thought that you had lost your rights to the stove…and that spatula."

Trish shrugged. "I was craving pancakes." Shaking his head, Dante took a step into the room, but Trish immediately raised her spatula at him in warning. "You are _not_ coming in here until you've cleaned up. You have guts in your hair."

Grinning at her and leaning against the door jamb, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Do you want to help me wash?"

Trish's expression was serious and he knew he had failed in his attempt to pull her away from the stove. "I want pancakes."

"We could go to IHOP."

"I want _homemade_ pancakes."

Dante sighed, attempting to step over the threshold into the kitchen once again. "Do you want me to make them for you?"

"Ah! Stop right there. No undead guts in the kitchen!"

Looking up at her with an expression of pure frustration, he snapped, "Don't burn down the house," before turning on his heel and heading up the stairs.

-----

Trish glared at the blackened lump in the skillet. Why did this simple task continue to elude her? She had tried time and again to make only the simplest of foods. The kind of foods children learned to make at an early age. The kinds of foods which were impossible to screw up. And yet, she managed to do just that every time she stepped into the kitchen. It was a frustration that was beginning to eat away at her sanity.

"I just want one pancake," she whispered, pleading with the spatula in front of her for a moment before sighing in resignation and flinging the utensil in the sink.

Anger burning in her veins, she stomped up the stairs and down the hall to the half-open doorway filled with steam. Her lips pursed, she entered the bathroom without hesitation, flung the shower curtain aside and stepped into the shower fully clothed. Dante was turned away from her, his face buried in the spray of water, but he didn't seem surprised by her presence. His shoulders slumped slightly and she knew he had sighed though she couldn't hear the sound of it over the roar of the water.

Her livid glare faded slowly as she watched him wash his face from behind, his muscles moving beneath his skin. "I'll wash your back if you'll make me a pancake," she offered quietly, shivering a little as the overspray of water began soaking through her thin clothes.

Sighing audibly this time, Dante pressed one palm against the wall of the shower, shaking his head. He was still turned away from her so she couldn't make out his expression, but she knew she could get him to give in eventually.

His other hand finally reached back to give her the soap and she took it with a tight smile. Lathering the soap between her fingers, she began working her hands over his back, massaging his muscles as she went. She had to admit that washing him wasn't such a painful task. He was tense tonight, and the accomplishment of turning those taut muscles into supple putty was almost rewarding enough to make her forget about her failure in the kitchen.

When she had finally scrubbed every inch of grime from his skin, he turned around and rinsed off, looking down at her with a smug expression. Scowling, she nearly walked out of the bathroom that moment and admitted defeat. Maybe IHOP wouldn't be so bad.

He caught her around the waist the moment she made a move, pulling her toward him. She tried to hold her ground, but her bare feet slid on the slippery tile. Pressed against his chest, she realized her clothes were a lost cause as they soaked through to her skin. "I changed my mind," she murmured, trying to pull out of his grip—albeit, not trying very hard. "I'm going to IHOP."

"No, you're not," he replied, trailing his lips over her damp forehead and down her cheek.

"Mmn, Dante. Let go." His lips had made their way to the juncture of her neck and her collarbone.

He chuckled and she could feel the sound through his lips against her skin. "You want your pancakes, don't you?"

"You are such an opportunist."

"You're the one who stepped in the shower with me. You should have expected this." His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her through pale, damp lashes. "You may not be much of a cook, but I think you win the wet apron award."

Smirking sourly, she said, "I'm so flattered."

------

Dante watched Trish cut the pancake delicately with her fork. The world was turned on its side, his head resting on an arm stretched out across the table. His hair was still damp enough that it was dripping on his arm, but he was too tired to care. He should have been in bed already, sleeping the sleep of the just, but for some reason he was still awake, watching his partner eat breakfast at four in the morning as if it was the most entertaining activity in the world. Maybe he was getting old; only old people were up at this time of day eating breakfast.

Trish pushed a bite of fluffy cake into her mouth, licking her lips and then tracing her tongue up the outside of her forearm to catch the drip of syrup trailing there. Catching him watching, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. "Do you want some?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, but did not reply.

"What?" she asked innocently, quite a bit friendlier now that her craving had been satisfied. "I already said thank you." Returning her attention to her plate and the last bite of pancake, she snagged the cake with her fork and dragged it around the plate in a slow spiral, soaking up as much syrup as possible before raising it to her mouth and closing her eyes with a smile.

Dante lunged at her suddenly, surprising both of them with his speed. "I want _that_ piece," he said, grasping her wrist and pulling it away from her face. Her eyes widened as he attacked her, and he grabbed a handful of hair and forced her head back so it would be more difficult for her to swallow. Covering her mouth with his own, he forced his tongue past her lips and delved into her mouth. The sweet syrup on her lips and the warm, buttery taste of the syrup-saturated pancake made him sigh into the parody of a kiss.

She growled at him, but he managed to pull the reward from her mouth, swallowing the last piece of pancake with a satisfied smirk as he sat back in his chair. Glaring at him, she punched him hard in the arm. "You're such a bastard!"

"Hey, who made the pancakes, babe?"

Her expression warring between a glare and a grin, Trish stated, "You'll have to make up for that, you know."

"I'll reiterate: who made the pancakes?"

"The pancakes were an equivalent exchange; I washed your back and you made me pancakes. I didn't owe you anything. I was being gracious to even offer you a bite."

Dante sighed. "Fine. Will I enjoy the payment?"

"Probably."

"You _do_ realize it's four in the morning."

"So the clock says."

"And I'm dead tired."

Trish raised an eyebrow, leaning forward over the table slowly while surely knowing she was shamelessly exposing herself. "Are you saying you aren't up to it?"

-------

Utterly contented, Trish smiled quietly into the darkness of the room, blinking sluggishly as she soaked in the utter bliss of the moment. Exhausted, Dante lay half on top of her, his head a comfortable weight on her stomach, silver eyelashes trembling lightly against tan cheeks. His heartbeat was deep and slow, mingling with her own, the heat of his skin like a warm blanket over her body. Threading her fingers gently into his pale hair and caressing his scalp delicately, she watched him sleep and enjoyed this moment of peace that was so rare in their lives.

Trish was not the kind of woman who needed to be protected. She was more than capable of protecting herself under most circumstances, and it irked her when Dante treated her like fragile flower—not that he did so often. And yet, occasionally—when she was feeling particularly vulnerable—she yearned for the feeling of security only this level of contact with him could give her. She would never admit to him just how much she craved his touch, how she occasionally watched him when he was working or fighting, her eyes focusing on his hands—those strong, calloused hands that could be so gentle when he allowed them to be.

One of those large hands was spread across the curve of her hip at the moment, and she relocated her fingers from his silken hair to his hand, tracing the rough angles of it lightly, almost reverently. He stirred slightly, moving only enough to create friction against her skin and make her ache for more. His hand twitched against her and his nose brushed against her navel, his breath tickling over her skin as he sighed. She felt his eyelashes flutter as he opened his eyes a fraction to look up at her.

"Aren't you going to sleep tonight?" he asked, his voice a soft, sensual rumble that vibrated through her skin.

"Who needs sleep?" she said coyly, a smile still tugging at her lips.

Lifting his head a few inches in order to make eye contact, he grinned wickedly. "Don't tell me you're ready to go again? Damn, Trish. You wear me out." His words were at contrast with the way his messy hair tumbled around his face, giving his features a hint of boyishness.

Unable to keep her hands out of his feathery hair any longer, she pushed the scattered fringe out of his face, tangling her fingers in the strands. "Then it's a good thing you recover quickly."


End file.
